


somewhere between midnight and 2 am

by roundabout



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Aftercare, Anal Play, Binge Drinking, Comeplay, Drunk Sex, Exhibitionism, First Time, Light Authority Kink, M/M, Mutual Masturbation, Oral Fixation, Porn with Feelings, Pre-Kerberos Mission, Sex Toys, Sort Of, brief mention of drunk driving, now with art
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-02
Updated: 2019-01-02
Packaged: 2019-10-03 01:50:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,364
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17274827
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/roundabout/pseuds/roundabout
Summary: “Come on,” Keith calls. “It’s literally one of your last nights on Earth. Are you really gonna spend it moping on a balcony and avoiding the people in your own house?”When Shiro laughs again, it’s full-bodied for the first time all night. His feet kick up puffs of fine dirt as he trails after Keith down the short path. “I mean,” Shiro says, “that was kind of the plan.”“Your plan sucks,” Keith tells him, slinging his leg over the streamlined body of the hovercraft. He leans forward, rests his elbows on the handlebars.Or, Shiro is having a rough night on the cusp of the Kerberos launch. Keith helps.





	somewhere between midnight and 2 am

**Author's Note:**

> This fic has been a long time coming (pun _enthusiastically_ intended). The core of it was drafted way back before season 7, operating under the assumption that the Galaxy Garrison is a military post-secondary institution. Therefore, all characters within are written as of-age adults.
> 
> This was intended to be a much shorter part of a much larger animal. The nsfwbb gave me that extra kick in the ass I needed in order to actually sit down and finish this, and edit it up into something that I actually liked.
> 
> It also wouldn't exist (or, at least, not at all the way it does now) without three very important people: ember, jess, and chrono, you listened to me bitch and moan, edited my nonsense, and put up with my autocorrect and all the havoc it would wreak on the gdoc for so long, and I'm so grateful.
> 
> I'd also like to give a very special thanks to [fr0stmask](http://fr0stmask.tumblr.com/) for working with me during the bang. Their art is lovely, [please check it out](https://twitter.com/fr0stmask/status/1080678062839099393)!
> 
> I've also been informed that it is absolutely _vital_ that everyone knows that _[this](https://cdn.shopify.com/s/files/1/2660/5106/products/pk4sbdl94y3x2mkuxdsa_1400x.jpg?v=1539065853)_ is the kind of futon that makes a cameo in here. I wouldn't want anyone else to end up yelling about furniture at 1 am over this fic.
> 
> And lastly, don't accept every drink people hand you at a party and accidentally end up drunk out of nerves and the inability to gracefully say no. Don't be Keith.

  
oh hannah  
tell me something nice  
like flowers and blue skies  
oh hannah  
i will follow you home  
all though my lips are blue and im cold

i don't wanna be your friend i wanna kiss your lips  
i wanna kiss you until i lose my breath  
― girl in red, i wanna be your girlfriend

\---

 

 The party is in full swing by the time Keith pulls up.

 The off-base officer accommodation is an ugly, utilitarian building with a bland grey concrete facade. It squats right on the edge of the desert, planted in the odd no man's land between the town proper and the expanse of chain-link fences and barbed wire delineating Garrison property from the rest of the world. On the average night, the building is a graveyard — a neutral, private place for tired people to hang their hat before crawling back to base at dawn.

 Tonight, the building is thrumming with life.

 The front doors yawn open, wedged in place with rocks and sticks to facilitate the steady stream of bodies moving in and out. The badge reader attached to the doorframe chirps, sharp and irregular and unhappy. The sound is loud and jarring enough to be heard over the hum of conversation and bass-thump of music, but is utterly ignored by the people spilling out onto the front porch with plastic cups in hand. A cloud of smoke coils around the group huddled together at the railing. Backlit by the buzzing porch light, the smoke hovers like a halo above their heads. Roaches and cigarette butts litter the walkway, ground deep into the rich red earth.

 Keith stashes his hoverbike behind a nearby thicket of short, half-heartedly maintained brushes. He glances at the doorway, teeming with people, and scuffs his heels in the dirt before sighing. Tugging at the hem of his shirt, Keith already regrets leaving his jacket hanging in his dorm, but he squares his shoulders and makes his way towards the entrance. He nods absently at a few smiling, half-remembered faces as his boots thump up the front step. When the upperclassmen shift to beckon him closer, he ducks his head — hiding behind his bangs — and pretends he doesn’t see. The thrumming bass swallows their calls, so he so he can dodge past them with a slight wave and no regrets as he slides through the front door.

 The building’s narrow foyer is unpleasantly full — a sticky press of bodies lining the walls and flooding out to the centre. Despite the open door and the cooling night air, the interior is stifling. The sweet-sour stink of spilled beer and fresh cigarette smoke permeates everything, hanging heavy in the sweat-damp air. The pale green floor tiles are dull, scuffmarked, and oddly gummy, littered with discarded plastic cups and torn streamers. Keith's boots stick as he picks his way inelegantly through the mess of people blocking the pathway to the stairwell.

 An upperclassman he almost remembers from Shiro’s flight simulator timeslot spots him as he tries to shoulder past. She slurs something that Keith can’t quite make out over the echo of loud voices and muffled in the hall when she steps out to intercept him. Her face is flushed, a little sweaty, making her bang stick to her cheeks as she presses a large, full can of lukewarm beer into his palm.

 Keith shifts on his feet and tries not to rubberneck around her too obviously, even as his blunt nails tap out a staccato rhythm against the side of the can. There is a slow burning spark of discomfort flickering low in his chest; a quiet but growing, childish desire to swing his fists around himself in a circle until the people pressing close into his personal space are forced back. He bites his tongue and tamps down on his irritation, on the urge to mumble an apology and shove past her. She wavers on her thin, spiked heels, hand gesturing vaguely as she calls something else to the cluster of junior officers loitering by the mail wall. Keith just barely catches ‘finally’ and ‘someone tell—’ before she’s staring back at him with an expectant expression on her face.

 Floundering, Keith pops the tab on the beer and holds it out for her to take back. Her face breaks into a wide grin and she raises a brown bottle from where it had been hanging inconspicuously at her side to clink against the thin tin. She claps him on the shoulder and powers through a heavy swig, downing half her bottle, prompting Keith to do the same. He winces at the taste, and at the sweat-sticky heat of her palm bleeding through the thin material of his shirt, before he side-steps around her. She lets him pass, her shiny lip gloss smudged at the corners of her smile.

 He takes another sip to chase away the bitter tang, then another, and another, and by the time he has pushed his way through the main entranceway and up the crowded stairwell to Shiro's apartment, the can is empty and Keith is feeling a bit better, looser limbed and degrees more relaxed. The empty can finds a home on the tiny end table sitting just inside Shiro’s open door, another fallen soldier among an army of drained bottles amassed there.

 Keith scans the room, pressing up on his toes to look over narrow shoulders and fluffed hair, but doesn’t spot Shiro anywhere. He moves further into the apartment, making his way towards the space where the rickety dining table has been pushed flush to the far wall and laden down with sweating bottles and cheap dollar-store punch bowls. Disposable red cups ring each faux-crystal bowl, filled with half-melted ice cubes and wine-dark punch.

 A stranger, tall and looming with the posture of a ranking officer and the glowing nose of a lush, claps Keith on the shoulder and gives him a little shake before snagging an unclaimed cup and moving on. Uncomfortable, Keith grabs a cup of his own and takes a gulp of the sugary-sweet liquid. The ice cubes rattle against one another as he holds it in front of his chest like a shield and pushes through the crowded floor to circle the perimeter, searching for a familiar undercut or a deep bark of laughter.

 Instead, he finds Matt.

 Keith pauses for a moment to take in the scene: Matt, holed up in the kitchen, sprawled over a wobbling plastic lawn table, likely liberated from the courtyard. He’s already a little drunk if his pink cheeks and wide grin are any indication. Matt’s eyes light up when he spots Keith working his way across the room, and he waves Keith over, clearly expecting to be obeyed.

 Something like relief blooms behind Keith's sternum, and he immediately moves into Matt’s orbit.

 “I wasn’t sure you’d make it!” Matt calls over the din as soon as Keith is in range. His face looks older, sharper, without the thick circle frames perched on his nose.

 Keith takes another sip of his sickly sweet punch and shrugs one shoulder, feigning indifference to hide the grin trying to crawl across his face. “Some guys I know are about to hurl themselves into space. Thought I might find them here before they go.”

 Matt snickers as he sweeps an arm out, gesturing to the crush of bodies blocking out the living room. “How’s that going for you?”

 “I found one,” Keith tells him, voice as dry as bleached bones in the desert. He waves the bottom of his cup in the general direction of the folding lawn table and the veritable forest of bottles partially obscuring Matt from view. He makes a show of peeking over the neck to see Matt’s hands. “I think, that is. It’s a little hard to tell.”

 “Well,” Matt says with a shrug and a smile, shuffling a few of the bottles scattered about in front of him. His hip nudges the table, and clear liquor sloshes over the rims of the two fat plastic shot glasses sitting beside a tall bottle covered with sharpie scrawl. It gathers in sticky puddles on the grimy pebbled surface every time the table wobbles. Matt doesn't seem to notice, intent on rearranging the flasks along the outside edge, creating a space for Keith to wedge his cup. “I’m either going to spend a long, sober eon crammed in a tiny, glorified tin can with Shiro and Dad, or die horribly in the attempt. Might as well enjoy this while I still can.”

 Content with his final bottle arrangement, Matt nods to himself and picks up both brimming shots by the rim. He presses one into Keith’s hand and keeps the other for himself. He mimes clinking plastic and tapping the tabletop twice before Keith catches on and follows suit. Matt downs his like water, and Keith follows a half-step behind.

 Keith makes the unfortunate mistake of holding the liquor in his mouth before swallowing the whole shot down in two painful gulps. The homebrew burns his throat all the way down and sits like molten lead in the pit of his stomach. A full-bodied shudder rolls up Keith’s spine as the aftertaste — sharp and ugly as gasoline — blooms on his tongue.

 He fumbles the tiny cup and nearly drops it, spilling the last dregs all over his wrist and the table. Keith can feel the way his face twists as revulsion sweeps through him — lips peeling back in a rictus grin as he squints through watering eyes. A taste like old hairspray and rubbing alcohol lingers in his mouth. Matt’s knees bend with the force of his own laughter. Matt slams his own empty glass down — rim first — and reaches across the small forest of glass and plastic to pat Keith’s shoulder when he coughs.

 Someone jostles Keith as he shakes the droplets away, reaching around him to grab a lukewarm beer from the open cabinet above his head. Keith pulls a face and shifts out from under Matt’s hand, but as the taste recedes, he finds himself stifling a smile, despite himself. Another stranger shuffles into the kitchen, and Keith side-steps away from the cabinets in a futile bid for personal space, making a grab at his own cup of punch as he goes. He takes short sips to wash away the taste of moonshine and give himself something to do as Matt busies himself pouring another line of shots.

 “You need to take care of yourself while we’re gone, you know that, right?” Matt says after a moment, speaking into his freshly filled shot while he lifts it to eye level, as if inspecting the quality of the homebrew. Apparently satisfied, he drops it down to tap the table before tossing it back in one smooth motion. He chases it with a big sip of soda and bounces a little on the balls of his feet.

 Keith narrows his eyes, irritation swelling as sudden and inevitable as high tide, as deep and dragging as an undertow. It prickles along his spine without his consent — irrational, unwanted and uncontainable. His grip on his cup tightens, plastic creaking. He inhales sharp, tongue burning, and bites out a short: “Made it this far, haven’t I?”

 The abrupt shift in mood rolls off Matt like smoke. He takes another short sip of soda and raises the glass in an apologetic wave with a casual shrug. “I don't mean anything by that. We just worry about you. _Shiro_ worries about you.”

 It cuts the wind from Keith, words burrowing into his skin like blunt knives. He chews his cheek, teeth finding familiar indents, and says, “Look, Matt, I'm not a kid—”

 The look Matt gives him is bland and cutting, like he's ten steps ahead and waiting, but Keith isn't keeping up. “Trust me,” he deadpans. “We know.”

 Keith accepts the second shot Matt passes him on autopilot, not quite sure how to respond. He grimaces even as he goes through the motions of tapping the table and knocking it back. The second shot slides down Keith’s throat marginally easier than the first, even if he can't quite stop the disgust from twisting his features.

 Matt winks at him, slow and exaggerated, and Keith tosses the empty cup at his face. He has to dodge droplets that smell like straight paint thinner when Matt bats it right back.

 Keith coughs away the lingering burn, and tries to resist the urge to squirm when Matt drops his hands and focuses his full attention on Keith.

 “Where is Shiro anyway?” Keith asks, an awkward bid to distract him from whatever sincere and probably emotionally fraught speech Matt’s gearing up to say, “I wasn't expecting him to be at the heart of the party, but I haven't seen him anywhere.”

 The beat of Matt’s hesitation is stark and obvious, the flow of their conversation tripping and falling before Matt sighs, eyes scanning the room. His mouth twists into a frown and he waits for a pair of officers, giggling and hooked at the elbows, to turn to look into the fridge before his jaw juts out. Keith follows his line of sight to the floor-to-ceiling curtains that obstruct the glass doors leading out to the tiny balcony.

 Understanding washes over Keith, settling over his shoulders like a blanket. He turns, ready to leave, when Matt reaches over the table to catch his elbow.

 “Keith,” he says, face set, eyes sober and serious for the first time all night. Keith's brows furrow in surprise, but Matt’s grip only tightens. He licks his lips, chewing his words, and finally says, “Be gentle with him. It's been a long few months.”

\---

 “Nauseous?” Keith asks as he slips out through the sliding door and onto the concrete balcony. The door rattles along it track as Keith pulls it closed, cutting out most of the noise from inside. Three short strides bring him just shy of the railing. Keith comes to rest at Shiro's elbow, watching Shiro's slumped shoulders and large hands running through thick dark bangs out of the corner of his eye.

 Keith taps the bottom of his plastic cup idly, swirls the liquid inside. “You know, a wise man once told me to get it out while it's still in your stomach and not in your bloodstream. And while you're not wearing a helmet you can't take off.”  
  
 Shiro pauses for the briefest of moments, brows wrinkled as he visibly combs through his own memory, until Keith snickers and bumps their shoulders together.

 “Matt,” Shiro says, grin curling at the corner of his mouth.  
  
 “Matt,” Keith confirms, and knocks their shoulders one last time, just because.  
  
 There are deep smudges like darkening bruises under Shiro's eyes that don't lessen when he smiles, and are not erased by the tired hand Shiro passes over his eyes as he slouches back over the railing. Keith downs the last of his punch and leaves his cup on the seat of a nearby chair. Made brave by the alcohol leaching into his bloodstream — the last shot still sitting like a living flame in his chest — and by the excuse of his short, cropped shirt in the chilling evening air, he mirrors Shiro's pose and tucks in a few shades closer than usual. Their bare forearms press together on the cool iron railing.  
  
 They are silent as they watch the sun dip low to kiss the horizon, dripping golden oranges and rusted reds onto desert soil.

 “I am,” Shiro says at last. “Nauseous, I mean. Only it's got less to do with this—” He holds up his own empty cup, rattling the half-melted ice cubes at the bottom. “And more to do with hurtling myself, two other people, and billions of dollars’ worth of equipment out of the atmosphere at 11.2 kilometres a second in a handful of days.”

 “You’ve done it before,” Keith says, picking his nails before casting his gaze to the side to study Shiro’s face in profile. “I've seen the model ships on your shelf, and the pictures. Read the reports, too. Apparently you're some kind of _golden boy.”_

 Shiro laughs; quiet, humourless, and a touch hysteric. He rolls his right wrist to one side, then the other, in an unconscious gesture. “Golden boy with a debilitating, degenerative muscular disease, about to go fiddle with delicate electronics and controls that demand intense fine motor control, on the furthest mission from Earth in Earth’s history, with a vote of no confidence from the top brass.”

 His hand lifts to scruff the back of his neck, palm rasping over the soft, short hairs of his fresh undercut. Keith casts around his mind for something, anything, bolstering to say and comes up empty. His tongue feels thick, glued to the roof of his mouth.

 At a loss, Keith gives in to sudden temptation and knocks his shoulder into Shiro's exposed side, and then lingers. Shiro's shirt is warm, slightly sweat-damp and Keith can feel the way his muscles shift and move as his chest expands and contracts with each breath.

 Shiro's breath hitches as Keith's bare arm presses into him. It’s a pause just long enough for Keith to curl his fingers into tense, unhappy fists and start to lean away, before a heavy weight settles across the line of his shoulders. Keith blinks and then sags into the touch as Shiro wraps an arm around him.

 It settles something inside of Keith, something that has been lingering dark and churning at the back of his mind for weeks. He curls further into the touch, and can feel the exact moment where something cracks in Shiro's chest, when his plastic cup clatters carelessly to the floor and Shiro slumps into Keith, buries his face in Keith's windswept hair.

 Matt’s voice echoes in the chamber of Keith's skull. _Be gentle._

 “You've got this, Shiro,” Keith tells him, settling for honesty as his forehead comes to rest against Shiro's collarbone. “No matter what anyone else says, I know you. I know you've got this.”

 He feels more than hears the weak laugh that tears through Shiro's chest. A nose digs almost uncomfortably into the top of his skull. “Yeah?”

 “Yeah,” Keith says, as his hands find their homes at either side of Shiro's waist, pinkies tucking into his belt loops. “And I'll be waiting right here for you when you get back, so I can say congratulations, and, you know, I told you so.”

 Shiro slings his other arm around Keith and tugs him the last few centimetres closer. His exhale is huge and explosive and sends a shiver down Keith's spine. His inhale is short, hitching.

 “Yeah,” Shiro says eventually, soft and thick, “I know you will be.”

_It's been a long few months._

 Keith lingers, content to give Shiro time as the sun sinks below the horizon and the _wub-thump_ of bass mingles with the rising buzz of night insects. The arm curling around Keith’s shoulders is just shy of painfully tight, but Keith settles into it. He nestles firmly into the warmth of Shiro’s embrace, and breathes the fresh scent of dry desert evening air and the sharp scent of cooling anxiety-sweat that has dampened Shiro’s light shirt. The pads of his fingers find Shiro’s spine, bowed slightly where he has curled around Keith’s shorter form, and he traces the bumps and ridges in the dip between Shiro’s muscles until Shiro’s breath starts to even out.

 Shiro doesn’t protest when Keith eventually worms his hands in between them and presses away from Shiro’s chest. Shiro’s arms fall, hanging loose at his sides. His brows are furrowed and his broad mouth curls down as he huffs out a laugh. Eyes dark and damp at the edges, he’s a cypher that Keith can’t quite decode as the last dregs of melted beer-ice seep into their shoes.

 Swallowing back his own nerves, Keith reaches out and grabs Shiro’s right hand, sliding their bare palms together. He takes one small step backwards, then another, then twines their fingers and tugs until a half smile passes across Shiro’s face.

 “Come on, old man,” Keith tells him, tone teasing to try to get a rise out of Shiro. He leans back with his full weight, back straight like a trust fall, blind faith telling him that Shiro’s grip on his hand will keep him upright. “Follow me.”

 Shiro laughs, surprise colouring his tone, and allows himself to be led back out through the balcony doors, through the crush of people invading his barren apartment. Matt whistles, fingers stuck between his teeth, as they pass, and Keith snaps him a lazy salute without pausing to say goodbye.

 Keith leads them down through the narrow hallway, through the obstacle course that had once been a stairwell, over cups and bottles and bodies, and out through the crowd still milling in the foyer. People part for them as they pass, standing straighter and pulling apart like the red sea. They raise cups and whistle and hide smiles, and Keith grips Shiro's hand a little tighter, pulls him along a little faster.

 They break through the front door into a cloud of smoke and laughter. Keith can feel his blood moving through all his veins, can feel the pulse of Shiro’s energy through the press of their palms, and laughter comes spilling out of him. His steps stutter into a run as his boots hit packed dirt, dragging Shiro with him, into the growing darkness.

 “Keith, wait—” Shiro’s own incredulous laughter breaks up his speech, taking himself off guard. Their hands slip apart and Keith turns on his heel, arms flung out for balance as he walks backward towards his hidden hoverbike. Shiro’s cheeks are flushed, sweet pink against his pale skin.

 Keith pulls his bandana from his back pocket and flashes his widening grin at Shiro before tying it over his mouth and nose. He feels suddenly giddy, electric, like there are live wires instead of veins running under his skin.

 “Come _on_ ,” he calls as the gap between them grows. “It’s literally one of your last nights on Earth. Are you really gonna spend it moping on a balcony and avoiding the people in your own house?”

 When Shiro laughs again, it’s full-bodied for the first time all night. His feet kick up puffs of fine dirt as he trails after Keith down the short path. “I mean,” Shiro says, “that was kind of the plan.”

 “Your plan sucks,” Keith tells him, slinging his leg over the streamlined body of the hovercraft. He leans forward, rests his elbows on the handlebars. The world shifts a little on its axis, colours muddying and running together. Keith sinks his teeth into the meat of his cheek until the world slides back into focus.

 “And you’ve got a better one?” Shiro’s eyebrows raise, skeptical, even as he leans against cracked black leather and battered cherry paint.

 Keith's grin turns impish, crinkling his eyes and exposing all his teeth. The air itself seems to shimmer and shake with a tension that sets off goosebumps all up and down Keith's arms; sets his shorthairs rising, like the picosecond before a lightning strike. He kicks the stand up and thumbs the ignition. The engine starts to hum, throbbing lazy between Keith's legs.

 “Yeah, I do.”

 Somewhere between one blink and the next, Shiro's hands find Keith's waist. Shiro’s thick, muscular thighs bracket Keith's, chasing away the chill of the deepening twilight. Shiro's chin hooks on Keith's shoulder as they slot together like puzzle pieces, comfortable and close.

 The engine revs, once, twice, loud and obnoxious, before they peel off into the night.

\---

 Keith all but tumbles off the bike, flushed from the wind and cheap beer, glowing under the harsh desert moonlight. He tugs his bandana down and crunches the grit that has managed to filter through it between his teeth. The world has taken on a cool hue under the bright splash of stars overhead -- pale and washed-out in the moonlight.

 His boots slide in the loose sand as he dismounts. His grip slips from the leather handlebars and he tumbles, ungraceful, with arms and legs akimbo. Keith catches himself with a curse, right before he noseplants into the hard-packed dirt of his own pseudo-driveway. The cool red earth stains his fingertips dark, even after he brushes them over the seat of his pants. Shiro whistles, grin loose and easy when Keith twists to watch him stumble off the hoverbike, the first true sign Keith has seen of his inebriation all night.

 Flipping Shiro a one-fingered salute, Keith ducks under the hand that Shiro throws out to ruffle his hair. Broad knuckles just barely graze the wind-ruffled hair at the top of his head. Keith picks up his pace, heedless of his unsteady legs, to dodge out of Shiro’s reach.

 Sand has filled in the nooks and valleys of the old, pockmarked wooden stairs since his last visit, turning the surface slippery with silt. Keith loses his footing on the cracked bottom step as he tumbles towards the darkened shack. Shiro reaches for him, hands splayed and hovering, curving through the air above Keith’s hips, ready to catch Keith if he falls too far.

 Their laughter is loud and clear as it rings out across the valley and echoes along the sheer cliff walls.

 Keith wobbles up the stair and twists to watch Shiro when his back hits the roughshod wooden door of the shack with a dull thud. Keith reaches out, fingers finding and twisting in the thin white cotton of Shiro’s shirt, to use momentum to pull him in.

 Shiro falls against him, easy and loose-limbed, with an indecipherable smile beginning to curl at the corners of his mouth. Shiro catches himself with his bare forearm pressed against the sun-bleached wood above Keith’s head, his right hand palming the exposed strip of skin above Keith’s hip bone. His breath fans across Keith’s face as he exhales, warm in the cold night air. Shiro’s eyes are dark where they watch Keith through thick lashes as their laughter fades out.

 “So what was your plan?“ Shiro’s voice is low, whiskey-rough and sends a bolt of something hot and shuddering straight through Keith. It wavers a little at the end, a faint trace of nerves chewing on his vowels. The timbre and pitch is unfamiliar but not unwelcome. It still makes Keith's toes curl involuntarily in his boots.

 Keith licks his dry lips, inhales to steel his spine, and tugs on Shiro's t-shirt to drag him a hair closer. The rush of his blood is loud in Keith’s ears. “The _plan,”_ he says, firmly, voice laced with more bravado than he feels, “is to distract you.”

 “Is that so?” Shiro says, corner of his mouth twitching like he can see right through Keith and is astounded by what he sees. Shiro’s throat clicks when he swallows. “And how are you going to pull that off?”

 “Well,” Keith drawls, voice too light to be casual. He watches Shiro’s face — skimming over the set of his gunmetal eyes and the curve of his mouth, memorizing the way he looks against the backdrop of stars. “First, the plan is to invite you in and see where we go from there.”

 Shiro breathes in, slow and measured, and then exhales in a rush. The dry-rotting floorboards under their feet groan as Shiro shifts his weight. He thumbs Keith’s hip bone absently, running the rough pad back and forth along the smooth skin there in a mindless, automatic motion. The wind kicks up, howling around the exposed beams above their heads. Keith shudders, exposed arms and stomach breaking out into goosebumps, and Shiro shifts a shade closer to block the wind. He rests heavily against the door, leaning fully into Keith’s space with his shoulders lax and loose. “Doesn’t sound too much different than the balcony.” 

“First of all, you were hiding and moping on that balcony,” Keith tells him, wrinkling his nose and squashing down a smile. Head buzzing, Keith twists the hem of Shiro’s shirt between two long fingers, twirling the fabric one way and then the other. His knuckles brush along the warm skin of Shiro’s bare abdomen with each twist. “Second, out here there’s no one to hide from. We could drink your dumb tea before you leave, we could get blankets and stargaze, we could listen to music, or go for a ride. We could do anything.”

 Now, Keith hesitates. He lets his head rest back against sand-smoothed wood, chin jutting out in a quiet challenge. He can feel his heart in his throat and his palms start to sweat, but the alcohol in his system and the quiet countdown that has been ticking away in the back of his mind for weeks make him brave. He tugs, just slightly, on Shiro's shirt until Shiro shuffles closer. Heat bleeds through Keith’s jeans where their thighs press together. Flirting with potential disaster, Keith lets his tone roughen with suggestion. “We could do anything we want. Alone. Here.  Together.”

 Shiro’s next breath leaves him in a shudder. His eyes flicker involuntarily down to Keith's mouth for a slow moment before drifting back up meet Keith’s steady gaze.

 “Anything?” he asks, tone heavy with suggestion.

 Keith feels a throb of anticipation, running counter to the way his heartbeat pounds like the tide in his ears. Shiro leans in, just a hair, just enough for their hips to brush, and it sends all of Keith’s thoughts flying. It feels like his first time in zero G when his stomach had swooped as his feet floated from the ground; like that moment when, clinging to the soft leather of Shiro's jacket, their hovercraft slipped over the edge of a cliff and hung heavy in place a heartbeat before freefall.

 Shiro's thumb continues its idle journey running back and forth over the bare skin of Keith's abdomen. The muscles there jump, sensitive, under Shiro’s touch. Shiro watches him with dark eyes, clearly chewing on his words for a moment before asking, “What exactly would that entail?”

 “I think…” Keith says, catching Shiro's eyes and blinking slowly. He licks his lips again, suddenly parched. Blindly, Keith's fingertips skitter along splintered wood behind his back until his palm finds the cool metal doorknob near his hip. “I think I’d like to go inside and find out.”

“Yeah,” Shiro says after a beat, dark-eyed and a little breathless. “I think so, too.”

 The handle sticks on the first try, but turns on the second. The door swings open on freshly-oiled hinges, and nearly dumps them both on the dusty wooden floor.

Shiro yelps in surprise, unprepared for the sudden loss of support. Keith doesn’t try to hide his snickering as Shiro starts to fall forward, arms pinwheeling. Keith's fist stays curled in the front of Shiro's white tee as Keith regains his own footing, the other raises up to cup the back of Shiro's neck to steady him.

 When Keith drags him forward into the dark of the cabin, Shiro follows, ungainly but pliant, still dark-eyed and pink-cheeked. Keith stumbles, wholy body awkward as his heels catch on the uneven floorboards and threadbare rug as he navigates them through the small room backwards by memory.

 Something Keith can’t quite parse settles into the lines around Shiro's eyes. He opens his mouth to say something, but the words are lost to his own ugly bark of laughter as the side of Keith’s leg knocks hard into the edge of the coffee table. The force of impact bumps the plywood tabletop from dusty cinder block legs and it clatters to the floor, loud and jarring. Keith tips back, off balance and already hissing and spitting, only to be held up by Shiro’s tightening grip. He slurs a curse as Shiro draws him back in, slouching down to press his grin into the crook of Keith’s neck. Keith swears again, muffled by broad shoulders that shake and bounce with suppressed laughter.

 Keith’s thin fingers find Shiro’s nipple with uncanny accuracy, gripping and tweaking in retaliation, but he’s fighting back a grin as he hisses, “Shut up.”

 “I didn’t say a thing,” Shiro soothes, laughter still lingering in his light tone. Keith huffs and spins them, pushing Shiro down onto the ancient futon pressed against the wall.

 The wire framework groans under Shiro’s sudden weight, thin mattress and underlying cardboard sagging. The motion throws Keith’s already shot balance; he follows Shiro down to keep himself from landing on the floor, planting a knee on either side of Shiro's thighs. The rusted upright portion of the frame knocks back against the thin wall. A small shower of desert dust rains down from the gaps in the pressboard.

 The movement startles a sudden _whumpf_ of noise from Shiro. Unsteady, but still snickering, he wraps his hands back around Keith's waist like they belong there. His hands are warm, lightly calloused, and strong. They keep Keith in place when he tips, his world still shifting despite his body coming to rest.

 For a brief moment, bodies tangled together, they both freeze: an intimate tableau trapped in amber. An inelegant mix of anxiety and anticipation tries to crawl up Keith’s throat, but he swallows it back, finding Shiro’s eyes through the dark.

  _Shiro worries about you._

 Teeth bite down hard on the inside of his cheek as Keith palms Shiro's shoulders for support and blinks the desert grit from his eyes. Shiro is solid and real under him — all thick, corded muscle and earnest expression. He stares up at Keith with his pupils blown wide, a darkening flush staining his cheekbones and spreading across the pale bridge of his nose, riding up to ruddy the tips of his ears. Shiro's mouth is full and soft, pink where he worries his lower lip, and curling at the corners

 Suddenly, desperately, Keith wants to slide between the lines of Shiro’s ribs and tuck himself neatly inside, wants to nestle in the barrel of Shiro’s broad chest and beg Shiro to carry him anywhere. Everywhere.

 Without conscious thought, they lean into each other, drawn together like two stars caught in each other’s orbit. Keith can taste Shiro’s breath on his tongue, and savours the intimacy of breathing in the taste of whiskey sours and flat beer and mint gum. They’re toeing a line — have been since the moment they leaned into one another on the balcony. Keith tightens his grip, thumbs digging into the soft space below Shiro's collarbone, and makes no move to get up. Nervous energy bubbling in his gut, he notices the way Shiro's stomach has gone taut with tension, the way his own spine feels like steel. He lingers, and Shiro lets him, breathing each other's air, prodding just past the point of plausible deniability.

 Shiro swallows hard, throat bobbing. Keith licks his parched lips and watches as Shiro tracks the motion. There is a tension sitting between them, like a thin metal wire pulled taut, singing as it ratchets tighter and tighter with each new breath.

 Warm and real and grounding, Keith finds himself settling his full weight onto Shiro. He leans further into Shiro's space, hyperfocused on the smell of his skin and the fresh dark stubble threatening Shiro's clean jawline, on the sweet way his soft mouth parts and his nostrils flare as he breathes in.

 Hesitant palms slide hot across Keith’s bare skin, mapping the area below his cutoff shirt. Nails drag slowly up his sides and leave light lines along his navel. Keith plants his hands on Shiro’s chest and leans in close enough to feel the warmth of him like a brand against his front.

 He noses the tender skin behind Shiro’s ear and inhales his scent, all fresh sweat and spilled liquor and cheap cologne, and feels a shudder ripple down the length of Shiro’s spine. Blunt fingernails bite into Keith's hips, but Shiro's grip keeps him cradled close. Keith’s tongue darts out to catch the taste of Shiro’s skin, feeling drunk and courageous, drunk and made bold from the soft pants that start to spill from Shiro’s parted lips. He slides his palms over the wide expanse of Shiro’s chest, feels the quick rise and fall, feels invincible.

 The wire snaps.

 Keith rocks his hips, experimental, slow enough to broadcast the action. The whole world is soft at the edges, blurring and shifting in the weak moonlight that filters in through thin curtains, but Shiro’s expression is clear and in focus. His hands are twin anchors at Keith’s hips.

 Shiro groans, long and loud and rough. His head falls back against the wall and hits with a dull thud. His nails dig in, halting the motion of Keith's hips but holding him in place, holding him close. Shiro’s chin tips up, soft mouth parted, head tilted, and Keith can feel his blood like lava under his skin, burning him up from the inside out.

 “We shouldn’t,” Shiro says, even as his thumbs align with the jut of Keith's hip bones, slotting perfectly against them. They rub little circles there, against bare skin where Keith’s pants ride low. His eyes are half-lidded, pupils blown so wide his eyes look nearly black in the dim light. They track the movement of Keith's mouth when Keith's tongue pokes back out to run along his chapped lower lip. “There's— I'm your commanding officer.”

 “Officer? Yeah. Commanding?” Keith grins, half laugh bursting in the air between them. He leans his weight back onto his wrists, brushes his smile against the sharp edge of Shiro's jaw. “Not so much. And tomorrow, you leave for quarantine, and then for Kerberos. And when you get back, we’re both gonna be wearing the same uniform.”

 “Keith, there are rules.” It's a token protest, thin and weak; Shiro's hands are already moving in counterpoint to his mouth, already pushing Keith's hips back and forth, back into a slow, dirty grind above his lap. The space between their bodies is paper thin. Shiro radiates heat between Keith’s parted thighs.

 “Tell me to stop,” Keith murmurs, mouth ghosting along the line of Shiro's neck. He can feel Shiro's pulse, rabbit fast, under his skin. He wonders what it tastes like, wants to count each beat against the flat of his tongue. His teeth graze Shiro's jugular and his gums itch with the desire to bite down. A shudder runs through him when Shiro's hands, sweating and shaking slightly, glide to the small of his back, stroke the skin there, and then come back to settle at his hips again. Keith's forehead comes to rest against Shiro's temple. “Tell me you haven't thought about this. Tell me this isn't what you want. Say the word, and I'll get up and find some tea, and some blankets, and the old radio, and we'll go watch the stars instead. We don't even have to talk about it.”

 “Keith, I—” Shiro starts, stops. His hands stumble into motion once more, skate up and down, thick fingers playing along Keith’s ribs and waist, feeling Keith’s muscles flex and bunch as he rolls his hips. “I leave in a week. I’m gone for months as of _tomorrow.”_

 Keith stills once again, settles his weight down onto Shiro’s lap as he brushes his hair out of his face, out of his eyes, and leans back to meet Shiro’s gaze. Dry-mouthed, honest, Keith runs his thumb along Shiro’s warm, flushed cheek and tells him, “Whatever we do or don’t do, I’m still going to be right here waiting for you when you get back. I only want what you're willing to give me. And either way, it doesn't matter because I'm not going anywhere, Shiro, unless you tell me to go.”

 The room is blurring in and out of focus around him, but Keith stays focused Shiro. His dark brows knit together, mouth downturned. He stares up at Keith like he's looking at a puzzle, unknowable and unsolvable. His grip slacks, just a hair.

 The first true spike of uncertainty slices through Keith as he waits. Wind swirls around the cabin, moaning through the dusty cracks in the walls. As it dies down, the night sounds creep in to soften the silence, humming insects and the distant rustle and call of birds. The calm that settles over Keith's shoulders is chilled and bittersweet, but laced with acceptance.

 “Alright,” Keith says, very quietly. He smiles, an awkward thing, and thumbs the furrow between Shiro's brows to smooth it out. He shimmies a little, bracing against Shiro's chest as he moves to slip off Shiro's lap, but before he can slide completely off the futon, the hands gripping at his hips tighten and tug him back into place. Keith’s thighs burn, just slightly, hovering once more in the air above Shiro’s lap.

  _“Keith,”_ Shiro tries again, raw, a little desperate. He tugs Keith a little closer, holds him a little tighter. His throat works as he tries to find words that don’t come. He doesn’t need to say _please,_ it’s already written in the shake of his breath and the bite of his nails and the heavy, pleading look in his eyes.

 The weight of Shiro's full attention hits Keith like a wave, like roiling water crashing over his head and sweeping him out to sea. He's floating, lungs aching, and the room spins as he shifts, blindly trusting Shiro’s tight grip to keep him upright, keep his hips pinned, keep his body hovering above Shiro’s lap.

 “Alright,” Keith repeats, careful and deliberate, tongue numb from booze and hot relief. He slips his hands from Shiro’s chest to his own. His head tips back to expose the long line of his throat, and he drags one hand up to press his thumb and forefinger against his own pulse points. His adam's apple bobs under his palm as he swallows. His fingers rasp through the wiry trail of hair peeking up from his waistband, the sound loud as thunder in the quiet of the room.

 “Okay then. Maybe—” Keith starts, words falling slow and thick like molasses. He feels like he's playing with fire and they both know it. He’s barrelling towards a sheer cliff with the accelerator stuck down, going on quiet faith that the landing won’t be catastrophic. “Maybe, what you need is something to remember. And maybe what _I_ need is a little supervision.”

 There’s a sharp inhale as Shiro’s grip tightens to the point of pain, of bruising skin, and Keith finds himself grinning down at him. “Yeah?”

 “Yeah,” Keith replies. The hand not wrapped around his own neck slides up his stomach to play with the hem of his short shirt, rucking it up even higher. His hips fall back into a light roll, and Shiro’s eyes track the motion. Keith’s heart hammers in his chest and his stomach turns, the same way it does when he’s pressed into his flight chair and the G’s kick in. He white-knuckles his hemline to hide the way his hands want to shake. “Think you'd like that, Sir? Think you could handle taking care of your poor, drunk cadet?”

 The fingers digging into Keith’s lower back drag Keith closer. Shiro’s thumb presses into Keith’s sharp hip bones, rocking his wrist to coax Keith into a deeper grind. He’s still hovering above Shiro, close enough to feel his heat, not quite close enough to touch. Keith melts under his hands.

 “Yeah… yeah, okay. No harm in your officer watching over you,” Shiro murmurs. His right palm kisses Keith’s jaw, slides flat through the loose hair at the base of Keith’s skull before curling into a tight fist. The pressure tugs Keith’s head back further, and drags a soft, bitten-off groan from deep in his chest. “Keeping an eye on you, making sure you’re in good hands.”

 Keith feels his eyes slip shut, the taste of relief on his tongue. He catches his lower lip between his teeth as the world tips, as warmth prickles down his spine. His hand drops from his throat, palming himself as best he can through his tight jeans.

 Shiro wavers, breaking long enough to gasp a prayer or a curse, before fire floods his expression and his spine steels. Shiro’s jaw flexes, neck tensing, as his satisfied hum rumbles through Keith. Shiro’s fist tightens minutely in Keith’s hair. Keith’s thighs tremble. The air feels electric, like there should be thunder rolling in the dark sky above them; like they’re standing barefoot in hot sand, watching dry lightning.

 With the thrum of cheap liquor like lighter fluid in his veins, Shiro’s fist in his hair, and Shiro’s thick thumb sweeping at the jut of Keith’s bare hip bone, slow and rhythmic, it’s easy to work himself up. Keith is hard in his jeans before he knows it, straining against dark denim and aching for more. Keith squeezes himself through the worn fabric, lets Shiro grind his hips into his palm, finds himself flushed and panting. Keith inhales slow, then breathes out an emphatic, _“Fuck.”_

 Shiro tugs one last time, sharp and delicious, at Keith’s hair before the pads of his fingers are brushing the corner of Keith’s lips. His mouth falls open, and they slide inside. The sharp tang of sweat fills Keith’s mouth as two fingers press heavy against his tongue. He swallows around them, saliva gathering and coating his lips.

 Shiro is halfway hard in his own slacks, but barely seems to notice. With his thumb braced under Keith’s jaw, he slides his wet fingers slowly over Keith’s tongue, mapping the contours of Keith's mouth. Carefully, he drags them in and out, slides them back to trace Keith's bottom incisors before delving back in, past his second knuckle, eyes on Keith's face. He presses them in deep and pulls them back in time with the tick of Keith’s hips.

 His fingers fill up Keith's mouth. They catch on Keith's teeth before he can wrap his lips around them. He swallows around Shiro's middle and ring fingers when Shiro breaks rhythm; tongue flicking between Shiro's knuckles when they scissor to keep his spit from sliding down his chin. Shiro watches Keith's lips stretch around each digit with fascination, keeps pumping them slowly, and tips his head like he's committing the sight to memory.

 There is a dark flush rising at the high points of their cheeks, clearly visible even through the dark.

 Red lines bloom as Keith rakes his nails down his own stomach as Shiro watches. His hand stutters over his dick, flustered; his mouth full but the rest of him left wanting. When he trembles it has nothing to do with the cool air whistling in through the cracks between the boards or the booze in his system, and everything to do with hot, hot hands and blown out pupils and the rough drag of calloused fingers.

 “Fuck,” Keith repeats, tipping his head back so Shiro’s fingers slip out to rest against the curve of his bottom lip, spit-slicked and dripping. They both take a moment, watching each other through wide eyes, hearts rabbit-fast like they're lost at night, watching meteors bloom and burn unexpectedly overhead as their feet dangle over the edge of the mesa.

 “Alright, Cadet,” Shiro says at last through a throatful of gravel. He taps his wet fingers against Keith’s chin. “Get moving.”

 Keith pauses for a moment, watching Shiro through his lashes. Nervousness flashes cold and bright in the pit of his stomach for the span of a heartbeat before the corner of Shiro’s mouth curls up. It twitches as Shiro tries to school his expression back to neutral, back to parade rest, and Keith ducks his head with the ghost of a laugh. He snaps a loose salute and slurs a lazy, “Yessir.”

 The top button of Keith’s jeans opens easy when he thumbs the fabric apart. He unzips slowly and squirms to push his jeans down his hips, exposing the bright fabric of his red briefs. Keith grips his dick through the coloured cotton and watches Shiro drinking in the sight of him. His blood rushes in his ears and his face burns, even as his own long fingers play over his length, slow, dragging. He palms the base and drags the heel of his hand up the whole line of him, repeating the action until his breath goes a little ragged. He switches gears and traces the outline with the tips of his fingers, once, twice, just to tease, before he thumbs at the head of his cock, breath shaky, and they both watch as the fabric stains dark at the tip.

 Shiro’s grip on Keith’s hip pulses, tightens and slackens, fingers digging in with pressure right on the knife edge of too much. Keith dips his head to press soft kisses to the tips of the fingers still holding his chin. He rakes his nails through the trail of hair that dips down below his waistband as he takes Shiro’s fingers back into his mouth, purses his lips, and sucks lightly.

 The quiet moan that falls from Shiro’s mouth chases away the lingering self-consciousness curling in Keith’s chest. Emboldened, he swallows around Shiro’s thick digits and slides his hand below his waistband to wrap his own around his cock, forming a loose fist. His range of motion is restricted by tight fabric, but it’s easy to trace the vein that runs along his shaft, thumb the sensitive place at the underside of his head, and swipe his fingertip through the wetness dripping from the tip.

 Distantly, Keith thinks he should be embarrassed by how much he’s leaking when he’s barely been touched, but a third finger slipping past his swollen lips chases away the thought. His eyes fall closed, focusing on the stretch of his lips around Shiro’s fingers as they drag back and forth across his tongue, and the steady movement of his hand on his cock.

 Shiro hums again, a noise that edges close to an astonished laugh, and he spreads his fingers far enough that Keith has to let his jaw fall slack to accommodate them. They stretch and press against the roof of Keith’s mouth, against his molars, curling to wedge his jaw apart. Spit drips past his lower lip and Shiro eventually pulls his fingers back to brush it away with his wrist. Keith’s mouth stays slack, parted, an open invitation.

 Another wet tap, this time against Keith’s cheek. “Keep your eyes open for me?”

 It’s less of a command and more of a request, but Keith treats it the same nonetheless. He nods, blinking a little sluggish, and mumbles, “Yessir.”

 “There we are,” Shiro says quietly, storm grey eyes meeting Keith's own. Keith exhales sharp and grips the base of his dick, gives himself a slow stroke, peering at Shiro through his lashes.

 Keith can’t quite hold back the sloppy grin that tugs at his mouth. He bites back a laugh as Shiro's eyes crinkle at the corners, and pulls his hand back out from beneath his briefs. He doesn’t bother trying to continue to tease as he tugs the waistband of his jeans and his underwear down further, shimmies them down past the swell of his ass. Keith blinks, and then his cock is right there between them, bare and flushed pink and curving upward towards his belly. Shiro’s hands twitch, the heel of his palm falling to rest against the line of Keith's clavicle. His thumb dips into the hollow of Keith's throat, pressing down, testing.

 Keith’s breath is loud in the quiet room as he reaches down, down, past his aching cock, and cups his balls. He rolls them, tugs them lightly, feels his hips stutter involuntarily forward. His cock twitches, visibly bobbing as Keith works his sack. Keith squeezes them gently, moving from one to the other and back again, before dragging his fingertips along the underside of his sack and tracing one finger up and down along the seam. A slow sigh crawls from his throat. The ancient futon creaks under Keith’s knees when he shifts his weight.

 Shiro exhales heavy through his nose and drags his slick fingers further down. They leave cooling trails down Keith’s jaw, down the side of Keith’s neck, down Keith's stomach. Knuckles ghost across Keith’s abdomen, making muscles jump and twitch under the suggestion of contact. Shiro catches Keith’s eyes and quirks a brow.

 Keith feels the flush of his cheeks intensify, burn crawling up to his ears and down to his chest. But the implication of challenge sparks low in his belly, chest flaring like hot coals. Keith raises a brow back, licks a broad stripe up the palm of his right hand, and grips himself firmly at the base of his cock.

 He starts honey slow, carefully twisting his hand up along his shaft to finger the underside of his head before dragging his palm back down so that his fingers circle the base, pinky finger brushing the seam of his balls. He’s hyper-aware of the slide of his own palm and the press of firm muscles against his thighs and the tight grasp Shiro has on his hip bones. The waistband of his jeans digs uncomfortably into his legs as he cants his hips, but the tilt-shift of the room and the heavy weight of Shiro’s full focus has Keith weak-kneed and breathing harshly.

 The heat of Shiro’s body and the chill of the night air grounds Keith, roots him down, even as his head buzzes and his vision blurs and the world takes on a surreal edge. Pleasure races up and down the length of Keith’s spine, gathering low and simmering in his gut until his toes curl inside his boots. It would be so easy to collapse down into Shiro’s warm body, to slot their hips together and grind against him, to drag his mouth against Shiro’s flushed skin until they both shake apart at the seams. But they’ll have time for that later, a lifetime of time after Keith claws his way up the ranks and into a different uniform, after Shiro steps out of his years-old flight suit.

 So Keith focuses on the pressure at his hips and the slow slide of his hand on his cock. The earthy taste of desert grit and salt lingers on his tongue. He can feel the ghost of pressure pushing past his lips, can feel the flex and bunch of thick muscle as he braces himself against Shiro’s arm for balance. Keith’s thighs ache and the draft whistling through the cabin raises goosebumps all along his exposed skin, and he has never felt so alive.

 He tightens his grip at the base of his dick and drags up, slow, slow, then snaps back down his full length at once. He repeats the action, again and again, never letting himself increase his pace; just the right side of too tight, just a shade too dry, until he feels the steady glow of pleasure spread loose through all his limbs. A fresh pearl of precome beads at the head of his dick, and Keith swipes his thumb through it, smearing the clear liquid. He pauses, brings his thumb to his mouth, and chases the taste with his tongue.

 Shiro swears, low and under his breath, but the words are lost beneath the groaning metal frame and Keith’s ragged laugh.

 An idea begins to grow at the back of Keith’s mind, blooming like fireworks bursting in the night sky. He laughs again, short and husky, and swipes his thumb back and forth across his lower lip. The grin that brightens his expression is a quiet thing, soft and challenging all at once. He catches Shiro’s dark eyes and watches him through his lashes. “You with me, Sir?”

 Keith’s own fingers are thinner than Shiro’s — bony and long; they would be delicate if not for the scars on his knuckles and the rough calluses built over soft flesh. They don’t fill his mouth as well as Shiro’s when he sucks them inside, three for Shiro’s two, leaving the lingering taste of fresh sweat and musk on his tongue. Keith’s free hand slips from Shiro's arm and finds his cock, thick and hard and waiting. He sucks his fingers, feeling his cheeks hollow as he does, lets Shiro rock his hips until Keith is fucking his own fist at Shiro’s pace.

 Shiro controls the rhythm, never quite generous enough to let Keith approach his peak. With an intent, rapt expression, Shiro works Keith’s hips until his fist bounces from the force of each slow, powerful thrust and his bones turn liquid, molten. Keith moans around the fingers depressing his tongue, filtering through the obscene sounds reverberating throughout the room — the tell-tale slap of his fist meeting skin and the sloppy, wet noise of the fingers in his mouth, in symphony with their increasingly rapid breaths.

 Skin tingling, Keith tries to concentrate on lapping open-mouthed at his fingers. His tongue slides between each digit, tracing his knuckles and fingerprints until they glisten in the low moonlight filtering in through the nearby grit-covered window. He hums and sucks and laves at the base of each finger until saliva is dripping messy down his wrist, drool smears his chin, and his whole hand is wet and soaking.

 The steady thrust of his hips slows as his hand drops, as Keith curves his spine and reaches behind himself. He nudges his boxers aside an extra inch and trails the tip of his middle finger over the swell of his ass. One-handed, he spreads his cheeks and teases his hole with a light brush of pressure. Keith drags his fist up and down the length of his cock as his fingers catch at his rim, pressing and prodding. He rides the sensation, pushing back into it.

 Keith's body gives away the exact moment he slides one finger inside, slow, slow, straight to the second knuckle. His mouth falls open, jaw slack, as he clenches around it, as he maps out the soft heat of his own insides. He crooks his finger, swirling it to caress his inner walls before drawing it out to the tip and plunging back inside. The velvet slide is as exquisite as it is inadequate — not deep enough, not wet enough, not _enough._ A second finger joins the first, too fast, bringing with it the first dull burn of stretching out. He doesn't give himself time to adjust, impatient and burning to the core with need. Instead, Keith curves his back and pumps his fingers in and out in time with Shiro's carefully measured breaths as his hips rock. His toes curl with his fingers, and he can't quite bite back a low, ragged moan.

 His pants restrict his movement, dig into his thighs and wrist, and the spit is drying sticky on his chin and fingers, but the intensity of Shiro’s expression, his eyes narrowed and blown black in the dark, eggs Keith on. His hand tightens on his cock, fist twisting around the crown, as he rides his fingers the best he can. The sensation of being filled but not full drags at him, sowing seeds of impotent irritation along the divots of his spine. He contemplates sliding a third finger inside while it's still somewhat slick, teasing at his entrance where the other two disappear inside himself, but Shiro leans forward, reaches around, and snags his wrist.

 Shiro’s warm hand lingers, pinning Keith's in place. Shiro stills the motion of Keith's hips, applying steady pressure until Keith gets the hint and stutters to a stop. Keith’s teeth sink into his lower lip as the head of his cock brushes against the worn fabric of Shiro’s shirt. Shiro’s fingertips press against Keith's knuckles as he slides his thumb around to brace Keith's palm. A slow-burning satisfaction sits in the set of Shiro’s jaw, fascination in the slope of his shoulders, as he tilts Keith's palm and drives Keith's fingers deeper inside. He keeps his eyes on Keith’s face as he draws Keith’s fingers out, slow, slow, before pressing relentlessly back in. There's just a shade too much friction; raw sensation sparking along Keith's nerve endings. Shiro’s wrist braces against the swell of Keith's ass, warm and solid, and Keith leans back into it, eyes falling shut against his will as his head falls forward. Self control fraying, Keith tries to concentrate on the calloused pads of Shiro’s fingers against his palm, on the phantom taste of Shiro’s fingers lingering in his mouth.

 Keith can feel more than hear Shiro's rough laugh, a ghost of air that slides over his sweaty skin and drags up goosebumps in its wake. In one quick, efficient movement, Shiro drives Keith's fingers in deep one last time and pulls them out, pulling Keith's hand away too, and trapping it against his chest. Keith shudders, feels his hole flutter, empty, and runs his forefinger over the vein at the underside of his cock to counterbalance the feeling.

 “This,” Shiro tells him, shaking Keith's drying wrist between them as a frown twists his lips, “is not going to cut it, Cadet. With nothing better than spit, you're going to hurt yourself.”

 “I have, uh—” Keith starts, stops. He swallows back the quiet moan that threatens to crawl out his throat as Shiro draws the hand Keith had used to open himself up towards his face and presses his mouth to the thin, soft skin of Keith’s wrist, to his sweaty palm, to his sticky knuckles. Keith coughs, squirms, and Shiro pins him with a stern look. It sends him straight back to sweating bullets as the sun peeks over the horizon at morning PT, to tonguing the plastic edge of his mouthguard as he grapples flat on his back and pinned to the mat, to lifting his chin and snapping a crisp salute as he sniffs back a tide of blood washing from his nose. Keith finds his shoulders squaring and his spine straightening without his consent.

 He tries again, putting in the effort to enunciate around his thick tongue and numb teeth. “I have something. A, ah, toy, Sir?”

 It’s a statement that falls out of his mouth like a question. Keith feels the way he did when he was still green, wet behind the ears and still mapping out when to salute and who to acknowledge, and how to jigsaw together the parts of himself that buck under the confines of strict rules with those other parts desperate for structure. Shiro tilts his face to press one last kiss to Keith’s palm and prompts, “And you have supplies?”

 Keith’s nod is inadequate, and he knows it as soon as his head bobs and Shiro’s eyes narrow. He aches when Shiro halts his hips again and tightens his grip on Keith’s wrist in warning. “Yessir, sorry Sir. I do. Sir.”

 The pleased curl of Shiro’s lips and the set of his jaw tells Keith he’s gotten it right, even as Shiro draws back and spreads his arms across the back rail of the futon. He drags his fingertips through the dust lingering there, rubs it between a thumb and forefinger. “Alright then, Cadet. Show me what you’ve got.”

 Keith’s transition back up to his feet is rocky and unsteady as the alcohol pulses through him, awkward with his pants bunched around his thighs. A helpless snort of laughter escapes Keith then, splitting through the moment, and Shiro’s own quiet snickering answers. Keith has to brace himself against Shiro’s knees to regain balance as he shimmies his clothing down past his ankles and steps out of them.

 Keith peeks up through his hair, still grinning, to check Shiro’s expression, to make sure he hasn’t ruined the moment with his clumsy dismount. Shiro is still splayed back against the backrest, a little hazy-eyed, a little red-faced, but he’s smiling. The last of the nervous tension is bleeding out of his posture, leaving him sprawled bonelessly, melting into the futon mattress. He’s still smiling as one broad hand drops down to cup himself loosely while he watches Keith through the dark. Keith drops his head to hide the way his smile broadens, and nearly tips to the side as he quickly toes out of his shoes and socks.

 “Careful, Cadet,” Shiro says, amusement leaching into his tone. “Remember, patience yields focus.”

 “Yeah?” Keith teases. He flicks on the dim, ancient lamp in the corner as he passes, bathing the room in soft, butter-yellow light. Sand and loose splinters of wood stick to the soles of his bare feet and sweaty skin as he kneels in front of the cabinet against the far wall. “What about balance? Does patience yield that too?”

 The bottom drawer groans as it opens, old metal warped and rusted, clanging in protest. Keith roots around for a moment, and pulls out a white cotton bag by the drawstrings. He stands tall, bare below his cut off shirt, limned in light.

 There is magma flowing thick under Keith’s skin; his heart beats double time in his chest. Shiro’s eyes trail over him — over his wind and sweat mussed hair, across his bitten lips, down his midriff, and along the line of Keith’s cock, still hard, flushed lavender at the head. Shiro’s breaths are slow and measured, wide chest rising and falling in time with the clench and release of his fingers in the dusty sheet, and the dark fabric of his pants above his dick.

 Keith licks his lips and twirls the bag and feels invincible.

 “Sir,” he adds, belated, pointed.

 When Shiro lifts his hand from his lap and curls his fingers, Keith finds himself moving forward immediately, as if tugged on strings. The cloth bag falls to the futon by Shiro’s hip with a dull thud, and Keith settles back into place astride Shiro’s lap. The denim of Shiro's jeans feels rough against the sensitive skin of Keith's bare thighs. Shiro’s palms are warm and dry as they slot around Keith’s bare hips to help him back into place. He’s close enough to feel the heat rolling off Shiro’s body, a balm against the chill wind picking up outside. He’s close enough to taste his breath, close enough to kiss.

 “Keith,” Shiro says, once, quiet, like a prayer, or a warning.

 Shiro's cheek is warm under Keith's palm when he ghosts it along his jawline, trails it down to feel the corded muscle of his neck.

 “Yes. Sir.” Keith says crisply and reaches for the bag. He fumbles with it slightly, feeling his cheeks burn hotter by degrees as he pulls out a long, thick, flesh-toned silicone cock and a half-empty bottle of lube.

 He clicks the cap and drizzles a generous amount out onto the head. It gathers for a moment at the tip before racing down along the shaft to the heavy silicone balls, and dripping over Keith's fingers. Keith drops the bottle, then grips the base and twists his wrist to smear slick along the dildo’s length.

 When the toy is slick and glistening, Keith settles back until he's resting against Shiro's thighs. He blindly maneuvers it behind himself, grazing his cheeks and leaving a wet line along the swell of his ass. He squirms, just slightly, before pressing the head against his hastily-stretched hole.

 He inhales, trapping his lower lip between his teeth in anticipation, ready to slide the toy inside when Shiro reaches up and catches Keith’s jaw, startling him into stillness.

 “That’s too much,” he chides, “too fast.”

 He’s right. Keith knows he’s right, even as he squirms his hips to line the blunt synthetic cockhead up perfectly with his tight hole, yet he can’t help but feel the spark of challenge that flickers in his chest. He’s in control, he gets to decide how much he can handle.

 His jaw clenches under five pinpoints of pressure. “I can take it.” Keith pauses, licks his lips, and adds, _“Sir.”_

 Shiro fixes him with the same look he gives Keith when they’re flying an advanced sim that Keith insists he can handle on his own — raised brows and pursed lips and narrowed eyes — unimpressed, but willing to let Keith fumble before stepping in to help. His grip slacks, but doesn’t fall away. And Keith _burns_ above him.

 “Then prove it.”

 The spark sputters and roars to life, and Keith grins with it. He moans, long and low, as he shifts back and feels the first stretch and sting of the toy pressing against his opening. His mouth drops open and his head tips back as it begins to slide inside; the head breaches him, spearing him completely, with a slow and steady pressure, with a slow and steady burn. Keith doesn’t pause, doesn’t give himself room to breathe. Lube drips off his fingers as he takes the whole broad length of it.

 He breathes deep and loses himself to the feeling of Shiro’s hands hot on his bare skin, of powerful muscles pressing against his bare inner thighs, of the desperate ache of his neglected cock and the thick silicone, cool and dragging, along his inner walls.

 Keith shifts up onto his knees without thinking, adjusting his weight and squeezing around the dildo inside of him. His dick, flushed and dripping, brushes against Shiro’s warm chest. It leaves a smear of precome that sticks white cotton to flesh, and the sensation drags another quiet, desperate sound from deep in Keith’s ribcage. It takes every last drop of control Keith has to not press forward and rut against Shiro's chest until he comes.

 Shiro makes a sound like a wounded animal, breathless and raw, and grips the swell of Keith’s ass hard enough to hurt, to bruise. He sinks his bitten-down nails into soft skin, before sweeping his hands up to glide over the naked expanse of Keith’s hips and stomach. He rucks up Keith’s shirt, brushing calloused pads over pert nipples, before one wraps tight around the back of Keith’s neck and the other tangles tight in Keith’s hair.

 There’s sweat starting to bead at the hollow of Keith’s throat and temples, and the pool of heat low in his belly has caught his blood ablaze. Adrenaline and the last curls of alcohol in his system set his hands shaking and his eyes burning and his gums itching, as he rocks his hips to feel the drag of silicone inside of him alongside the drag of his cock against Shiro’s firm stomach.

 Breath shaky, Keith sinks down slowly, slowly, relishing in the burn before riding back up. His chin bumps his collarbone, hair falling into his eyes as he twists slightly to keep the toy held steady; he slides back up until he can feel the ridges of the crown against his entrance.

 Through his lashes and the curtain of his sweaty hair, Keith locks eyes with Shiro. He drinks in the sight of Shiro’s ruddy cheeks and blown pupils, and grins, wicked and sharp. “Sir,” he rasps. “Are you watching?”

 His toes curl as he shifts his weight and drops back, as he takes the whole slick length inside himself in one smooth motion. The double edge of pain and pleasure spark along his nerve endings, electricity racing up Keith’s spine. Ragged gasps drip from him when the cool balls press against the curve of his ass, toy fully sheathed inside.

 “Oh, _fuck.”_ Shiro’s words are half-slurred, grit out through clenched teeth. He palms the back of Keith’s neck a little tighter, tugs his hair until Keith’s head drops back to expose the pale column of his throat.

 The hand at the back of Keith’s neck presses him back down as he rises, coaxing him into a quick bounce.

 Keith’s free hand flutters to his cock, gripping the base and dragging his fist from root to tip, and his head is swimming and his body is burning, but it’s not quite enough. He rolls his hips and rides the toy, teeth catching at his lower lip, but he can’t get the right angle, can’t get the right leverage he needs.

 It must show on his face, in the furrow of his brow or the set of his jaw. Shiro’s right hand slips down to loosely circle Keith’s throat, and tightens, just enough to make Keith still his hips.

 “If you need help, Cadet.” Shiro’s voice is rough and raw. “All you need to do is ask.”

 Keith's breath leaves him in a rush. He feels like he's floating, like the hands at his neck and hip are his only tethers. It’s overwhelming, and more than a little terrifying: sitting split open and needy with all his soft spaces on display. Keith inhales sharply through in nose and soothes himself with the comforting smell of Shiro’s skin. He swallows hard, adam's apple bobbing against Shiro's palm, and tries to choke back the soft, desperate noises that keep spilling from his mouth.

 “Ah, oh fuck, I need—”

 The hand around his neck tightens, just slightly, and Keith groans, gripping Shiro’s wrist. He sucks back a raw gasp and shudders, full-bodied and desperate; he clenches around the dildo, and his slick fingers slip as he tries to press the toy inside a little deeper.

 Shiro’s warm hand wraps around Keith’s forearm and tugs his hand away.

 “Sir, _please.”_

 The world whirls as Shiro spins them, hand curving around Keith's thigh to lift him off his knees and tip him onto his back, pressing Keith down against the dusty, threadbare sheet covering the futon. Keith's knees fall apart, spreading wide to give Shiro easy access to the toy still buried to the hilt inside of him. His hands find Shiro's biceps, clinging until the room stops swirling.

 There is something hungry in Shiro's shadowed expression, something desperate that clings to him like the sweat beading at his temples, so powerful that Keith can almost taste it. Keith curls a hand back around his cock, dry-mouthed as Shiro reaches between his legs and wraps his fingers around the base of the dildo. His fingers brush Keith's ass with every thrust, hot as coals in comparison to the lube drying cool on his cheeks.

 He starts slow and deep, pulling out to the tip and burying in to the hilt, dragging the head slowly against Keith's prostate with each pass. Each thrust comes a little faster, a little stronger, until Shiro is panting, hovering over Keith, and Keith is sweat-soaked and squirming, mouth agape and gasping hot and wet into the crook of Shiro’s neck. His fist pumps his own cock in time with each jolt of the toy inside of him.

 Shiro presses a kiss to the soft, delicate skin of Keith’s neck, and chases it by dragging the flat of his tongue along Keith’s jumping pulse point. Keith’s fingers scrabble at the sheet as his head tips involuntarily to give him better access. His grip on his dick falters, fingers fluttering as Shiro’s wet mouth slides along Keith’s skin. Teeth nip softly, testing, at the corner of Keith’s jaw, and he can’t suppress the punched-out gasp that tears from him.

 Shiro’s smile feels as sharp as a knife against his jugular.

 More kisses, sloppy and open-mouthed, run a line from Keith’s jaw to his collarbone. Shiro alternates between sucking the thin skin hard into his mouth and flicking his tongue out to soothe and tease. Shiro groans as Keith’s legs curl, powerful thighs bracketing his hips and squeezing, as heat like molten gold runs along each of Keith’s nerve endings.

 They’re both panting as Shiro moves to slide his palm flat against Keith’s skull to fist in his hair, pulling tight as Keith tries to draw a shaky breath that turns into a broken sigh. He tries to circle his fingers around the base of his cock and squeeze, tries to hold himself off a heartbeat longer, draw out the moment, but Shiro sucks hard and sinks his teeth into Keith’s neck, and Keith tips, helplessly, over the edge. He scrunches his eyes shut as his back bows, shoulders curling up off the dusty sheet Shiro is pressing him into. He comes hard enough that his bones shake and a rough groan rips through him. His balls tighten and his hand drags desperately down his shaft; the first stripe of come hits his collarbone, the underside of his chin, and drips down over his throat and into his hair. The second pulse coats his chest and abdomen, staining his shirt, and the last pulse pours out messy over his fingers.

 Shiro fucks Keith through it, relentless, pressing the dildo as deep as possible, grinding it against Keith’s prostate with its balls against his ass until Keith is gasping, oversensitive and overbright. His hands fly out, groping blindly at Shiro's chest and shoulders, balling in his shirt. Shiro’s name is dragged out of him on an exhale, burning his tongue.

 Shiro swears, dark and low, and pulls back to sit up on his haunches. Keith feels an icy stab of fear cut through the haze for a heartbeat — the sudden but intense notion that he has somehow messed up twisting his stomach into knots — until he hears the rattle and clink of a belt. The sound of Shiro’s zipper opening is loud in the quiet of the night, loud over the tide of their breath.

 When Shiro leans back over Keith, weight coming down hard on his left hand as he plants it by Keith's head, his cock is hard and flushed in his right. It’s large and thick and mouthwatering, heavy as it curves slightly right and up towards Shiro’s belly. Keith gives in to the urge to reach up and slot his hands, still sticky with his own release, over Shiro’s hips to drag him closer until the head brushes the mess Keith has made on his own stomach.

 It only takes a few strokes before Shiro is spilling over, face slack and open, above Keith. His come coats Keith’s stomach and chest, mixing with Keith's own.

 They’re quiet in the aftermath, foreheads resting together, noses brushing, breathing each other’s air. The burn of the alcohol has nearly worn off, leaving Keith mostly sober, spread out boneless under Shiro’s body. His grip on Shiro tightens, and his clean hand sweeps up and smooths down the broad expanse of Shiro’s back. There's a sense of contentment flooding Keith's chest, sinking into his bones.

 They’re going to need to talk about this — when they’re both clean and dressed and fully sober — but not now. Not tonight, with quarantine and the Kerberos launch looming over them.

 They’ll have time, eventually.

 Instead, Shiro drags his fingers along Keith's front, brushing the base of his dick, up through his pubic hair, and dipping into his belly button. They smear through the come coating Keith’s abdomen. Shiro's lips brush Keith’s temple as his wet fingers walk through the mess of Keith’s shirt and skate over his collarbone. His knuckles glide through the come pooling at the hollow of Keith’s throat before sliding wet over his chin to tap against the curve of Keith’s mouth.

 Keith’s eyes slip shut as his mouth falls open, sucking Shiro’s fingers back into his mouth. He can taste them both — bitter and salty, thick and warm — as he slides his tongue along each digit and sucks them clean.

 Shiro’s hand slips back out of Keith’s mouth and rests against the sharp cut of Keith’s jaw. Shiro noses at Keith's temple when his shoulders start to shake, quiet laughter coming in soft gusts against Keith’s cheek.

 A bony thumb digs its way into the soft skin of Shiro's waist, and Shiro twists to avoid it. He's still laughing as he watches the small answering grin play over Keith's expression.

 “This was a better plan,” Shiro concedes, low and hushed like he's telling a secret. His body is still hovering low over Keith's prone form, not even straining with the effort. Gentle, Shiro brushes back Keith's sweaty bangs from his forehead, runs his nails along Keith's scalp.

 Keith hums and turns his head into the sensation as his grin morphs into a wicked smirk. “Just a little bit better than hiding out on a balcony all alone?”

 Still snickering, Shiro sits back to tuck himself back into his pants. His eyes skate across Keith's body, legs still lazily spread wide, boneless as his sweat cools. He reaches out and strokes the darkening marks blooming stark over Keith's hips, thumb passing a hair's breadth away from Keith's spent cock where it lies softening against his belly.

 His middle and forefinger slide down, brushing past Keith's balls, to hook around the shaft of the toy still pressed deep inside. Each knuckle grazes the stretched rim of Keith's opening, cool against the tender flesh, before Shiro slowly eases the toy out, one inch at a time.

 Keith finds his eyes fluttering closed and his body clenching around the crown when it stretches his abused hole. His breath hisses between his teeth as he adjusts to the overwhelming sensation of being empty. Shiro hums a quiet apology, and sweeps his knuckles along the long line of Keith’s inner thigh to soothe him. He glances around, squinting a little in the dim lamplight, before locating the discarded cloth bag on the floor near Keith's head. It had fallen from the futon, strings tangled and half-wrapped around the leaking lube bottle. Shiro nudges it with one dust-covered boot until it stretches out enough for him to drop the dildo onto.

 Shiro looks back up from the floor when Keith groans and shifts, the first lingering ache of a thorough fuck filtering through his dulled senses. The dusty sheet sticks to his sweaty skin as he writhes, and through his narrowed eyes, Keith watches as Shiro quickly looks away to hide his smile. A wave of helpless realization crests over Keith's head as he sighs and pinches the rough-cut hem of his rumpled shirt between his forefinger and his thumb. The cooling mess coating his stomach and chest sticks the shirt to his skin, obvious against the black fabric.

 He nudges Shiro in the ribs with one bare toe, working hard to school his twitching lips down into a scowl as a fresh wave of snickering bounces Shiro's shoulders.

 “I don't have a jacket,” he complains, nudging Shiro again when he laughs a little louder. “This is all I've got to wear back to the Garrison.”

 “That's a shame,” Shiro tells him, voice light and airy and teasing.

 Keith jabs him a little harder, bites back his own grin as Shiro squirms to avoid it. “I have to walk through the _whole_ Garrison to get back to the barracks to change.”

 Another sharp poke. Shiro lifts his hand to cover his mouth, hiding his broad smile. Keith shifts again, planting his foot back down on the futon to readjust his hips, and makes a choked little sound of surprise. “Shiro, it's in my _hair.”_

 Shiro's head tosses back from the force of the ugly, involuntary peal of laughter that rips through him. His arms curl around his stomach as he pitches to the side. Keith breaks when Shiro does, heel of his hand pressing against one eye as a wave of fondness rushes through him. He dissolves into laughter, helpless and strangely giddy, and watches Shiro sink back against the leg Keith still has propped up on the futon. His elbow rests easily against Keith's raised knee.

 The boiling heat low in the pit of Keith's stomach has dispersed, leaving a soft warmth that has diffused through all his limbs, like the first blush of sunrise brushing his face after a night spent in the cold dark of the quiet desert. Keith wants to cup the feeling in his palms; trap the moment in amber and tuck Shiro, bright-eyed and grinning ear to ear, relaxed and tipsy, into the space where his heart lives and keep him there, forever.

 “I'd give you my shirt,” Shiro tells him, rubbing his mouth as he starts to come down, “but it's not doing much better.”

 It's true — there is a bold streak of precome staining the fabric at his belly, a wet smear of come along the hemline where the hanging shirt had brushed Keith's chest, and a series of telling fingerprints where Keith had clutched at Shiro’s chest as Shiro came. Keith eyes it for a moment, and snorts. “At least we don't have anything important going on tomorrow.”

 That sobers Shiro slightly, bright grin fading by degrees. His hands flutter at his sides for a moment before coming to rest on Keith's sticky thighs. Shiro’s fingertips trace light patterns against the grain of the fine dark hairs there, seemingly lost in thought. Keith lies still, giving him a moment to process what he wants to say before trying to speak.

 He can see the exact moment Shiro swallows back whatever had been sitting on the tip of his tongue and redirects. Shiro licks his lips, and widens his grin, but there’s something plastic in the set of his jaw and the lines around his eyes. Blunt nails drum against Keith’s skin.

 “Is the running water working here yet?” Shiro asks, eyes dropping from Keith’s face to linger on the streaks of come drying slow on Keith’s belly and the shiny slick left over on the curve of Keith’s ass. “I can find you a washcloth so you can clean up a bit before we head back.”

 Keith can feel the humor draining from him as he swallows back the bitter tang of disappointment coating his throat. He shakes his head, ignoring the way his own heart sinks. “The pump for the well is still broken. I haven’t gotten around to fixing it yet. But there are some water bottles and face cloths on the shelf in the bathroom.”

 Shiro nods once, curt and military, and slides off the futon in one fluid movement. His legs are still a little unsteady as he picks his way around Keith’s scattered clothing and the haphazard remains of the cinder block coffee table, but his careful steps are confident. His disappears through the side door, and Keith shivers, suddenly feeling the chill of the night. He digs the heels of both hands into his eye sockets and draws his bare knees and ankles back together. He listens to the sharp plastic crack of a seal breaking and the crinkle of a thin, cheap bottle crumpling as shapes burst and bloom in vivid reds and violets behind his eyelids.

 He loses time, counting his breaths and picking apart the twist of anxiety and post-party nausea building in his stomach. When cool, damp fingers brush the line of his shin, Keith jerks a little in surprise.

 The smile Shiro pins him with is slow, and soft, and sheepish. He ducks his head, peering through his fringe when Keith blinks blearily back up at him. Shiro lifts an old, faded rag and waves it a little, water trailing down his pale wrist.

 “It might be a little bit cold,” Shiro tells him, “but it should help.”

 Keith nods and hums in agreement, propping himself up on one elbow as he reaches out for the rag. Shiro hesitates, drawing back, pulling it just slightly out of range. His cheeks pink when Keith raises a brow, but as Keith watches, his spine straightens and his shoulders firm as though he’s solidifying his resolve.

 “Can I—” he tries, tone apologetic. He clears his throat, tries again, gesturing towards Keith with the cloth. “I mean, would you mind if I—”

 It takes Keith a moment to figure out exactly what Shiro is trying to ask. Water drips from Shiro’s wrist, down his forearm, _pap-paps_ against the thigh of his jeans. Shiro’s cheeks darken further as he waits, and after a beat he holds the cloth back out. Shiro mouth opens like he’s going to take it back when it clicks in Keith’s brain.

  _“Oh,”_ Keith breathes, colouring a little as well. His hand drops back to his side, fingers finding the edge of the dusty sheet. They fidget and twist, knotting and unknotting the fabric. He swallows hard, throat clicking, and lets his knees fall back apart. One comes to rest against the back of the futon, and the other hangs off the edge; the bent metal frame digs a little uncomfortably into his thigh, but Keith ignores it. In a strange way, he feels more exposed than when he had been splayed out under Shiro, panting and shaking apart. He feels like he should be standing at attention, waiting for his officer to inspect him, or shrinking back to cover up. He sinks more heavily onto his elbow and holds Shiro’s gaze. Warmth crawls up his chest, over his cheeks, up to the tips of his buzzing ears. “Oh, yeah. Uh, go ahead.”

 The first touch of the wet cloth is hesitant, gentle, and just as cold as advertised. Keith tenses as the ragged, trailing edges brush up against his hip, dripping cool water down along his side. Shiro mumbles a quiet apology and withdraws, rolling the cloth between his two hands and breathing on it in an attempt to warm the fabric before trying again. Keith blinks up, up, up at him, heart beating a hair too quickly, and resists the urge to fidget despite Shiro's divided attention. As he watches, Shiro nods, seemingly satisfied, and wraps his fingers in the cloth, tucking the bulk of it against his palm.

 This time, Keith is prepared. The threadbare wash cloth glides a little hesitantly along the crease of Keith's groin. It's thin enough that Keith can feel the warmth of Shiro's thick fingers seeping through.

 Shiro carves a winding path up from the crease of Keith's hip. He gently moves Keith's softening dick to the side, the first direct contact he's made all night, and continues on, sweeping the cloth through Keith's coarse, dark thatch of pubic hair. Keith tilts his head and watches him work, ignoring the pop of bubbles like budget champagne rising in his stomach. He chews his lower lip to stifle a laugh when Shiro frowns a little to himself and runs over the same spot again, and again, and again.

 “It's okay if it's not coming out,” Keith tells him, lips twitching, voice rough with suppressed humour. He gestures, a little awkwardly, to his matted hair above his shoulder. “I need to grab a shower when I get back to the Garrison anyway. Probably shouldn't show up in the communal bathroom with spunk in my hair first thing in the morning.”

 His words seem to break the spell of tension that had settled, unnoticed, around them. Shiro snorts, lifting his wrist for a brief moment. He squeezes the cloth, and a small amount of water dribbles out from his clenched fist and onto Keith's abdomen. His shoulders relax, and he pegs Keith with a lopsided grin. “Yeah,” he says, “that might make for a hard five minute shower.”

 “And an even harder inspection after the fact,” Keith quips back, already picturing the twitch of Iverson's one remaining eye. They lock eyes, and Keith knows in his bones that Shiro is picturing him standing at attention in the morning; crisp salute, crisp uniform, stubborn come sticking to the strands of hair hanging just shy of his collar. Shiro looks away, snickering.

 The next sweep of the washcloth up through the drying mess coating Keith's stomach is just as gentle, but twice as confident. Shiro works in short sections, massaging Keith's pale skin until it turns pink under his ministrations, periodically rotating the cloth for fresh fabric. They don't speak. Shiro seems focused on his work, free hand rubbing idle circles against Keith's knee and thigh, and Keith is content to watch and melt under his careful touch.

 When Shiro reaches Keith's shirt, he readjusts, nudging Keith's bare legs further apart so he can climb in close and kneel between them. He leans back over Keith, strong legs and muscular core tight, and tugs the hem back down over Keith's exposed pecs so he can scrub at the semen drying light against the dark fabric.

 Water leaches out from the cloth, spreading in damp, midnight swaths as Shiro works. It sticks the cotton down to Keith's chest, drags over his nipples when Shiro tugs and rearranges the top. The fire in Keith's belly sparks and sputters, and he huffs a half-laugh as he sinks back into the couch. Shiro's smile softens to something quiet, private, like he's filing the information away in his head. Keith doesn't pick up on the devious edge to his eyes until Shiro tugs the shirt again, more purposefully, just to feel Keith's cock twitch against his thigh.

 Keith picks at the dried come on his fingers with his thumbnail and flicks it in Shiro's general direction. Shiro tugs the shirt again, retaliation for retaliation, before smoothing the dark fabric down with the flat of his hand. They share a grin.

 When Shiro gently taps the underside of Keith's chin, Keith lets his head fall back as far as it will go, exposing his whole throat for Shiro to see. Shiro hums, quiet approval, and traces his wet thumb down the centre line of it, from the soft space below Keith's jaw, over his bouncing adam’s apple, down to the hollow of his jugular notch. It jumps, then, to the side of Keith's throat where he can still feel the sting of Shiro's teeth, and rests there. Keith's breath stutters in his chest, blood rushing loud in his ears, intimately aware that Shiro is reading his every reaction as if he's navigating the desert by the stars. There is a slow, smug air settling like a mantle on Shiro's shoulders when he snags one of Keith's wrists, hides his smile in Keith's suddenly sweaty palm, and drops a sweet kiss there.

 Face burning, Keith knocks a knee against one of Shiro's thighs — not even trembling with the effort to keep him aloft — and tries to knock him off balance. Shiro's breath wooshes hot and damp between Keith's splayed fingers, but then his eyes spark and he inhales deep.

 Keith can feel his eyes widen the moment he realizes exactly what is about to happen, and tries to tug his hand back. Shiro's grip around Keith's forearm tightens like a vice, and he even has the audacity to pause, catch Keith's eye, and wink. For a moment the world hangs in place, and then Shiro's chest heaves, and he blows a fat raspberry against Keith's open palm.

 The vibrations send ticklish ripples like a thousand creeping insects all along Keith's arm; writhing sensation racing all the way up to the join of his shoulder. It startles an indignant yelp from Keith as he jerks back, room swimming a little beyond Shiro's face. His free hand snaps out and collides with Shiro's forehead, batting him away with a light smack.

 The futon frame rocks back against the wall, sending down a second rain of desert dust, when Shiro knocks into the back bench. He lets out a gleeful snort as Keith huffs, shaking grit off his face and blinking it out of his eyes. Shiro has a little red mark lingering right in the centre of his forehead, and Keith squints up at it with an odd sort of pride.

 Shiro returns to the damp washcloth, lost in the scuffle, wedged between Keith's ribs and the futon mattress. He re-wraps his fingers and returns to work, softly cleaning Keith's messy throat and chin with a self-satisfied smile. He winks, unrepentant, when Keith jabs him in the gut with his fingertips.

 He moves north after a heartbeat, catching at a sticky smear that the corner of Keith’s mouth. The cloth lingers against the bow of Keith’s mouth, tracing the hint of his smile, for a long moment, rest of him wiped clean. Shiro's middle finger runs back and forth, back and forth, tracing the lush curve of Keith's lower lip. The wet fabric rubs slightly with each pass, leaving Keith's lips raw and tingling and hypersensitive. Keith smiles.

 Shiro ducks his head, eyes somewhere around Keith's chin. That pensive look is back, thoughts weighing heavy on his shoulders. He cups Keith's cheek, cloth dropping, forgotten, and thumbs Keith's cupid's bow when he finally says, hushed as a whisper in church, “I'm going to miss you.”

 For a moment, Keith is sure that Shiro has reached down his mouth, blunt nails scraping his esophagus, to wrap a broad hand around his lungs to twist. Keith tries to draw a breath, but he can't quite get the air, and his throat burns the whole way down. His eyes fall shut as his hand finds Shiro's wrist, wrapping tight and holding on like a lifeline. “Yeah,” Keith tells him. “Me too.”

 Keith uses his steady grip on Shiro's arm to dislodge Shiro's hand and lever himself upright. The sheet pulls taut as he slides back, body curling, and forces himself into a sitting position. The room skews slightly, shifting with the vertigo of the last vestiges of inebriation. Careful, Keith pushes Shiro back into the futon and draws his legs underneath himself. He kneels at Shiro's side, and gathers the barely-damp cloth in hand. Braced against Shiro's knee, Keith leans over him and drags a mostly-clean section of cloth over the worst of the mess. He works in short strokes, efficient movements run at half speed, starting from the outside edge of each smear and moving toward the centre. The white cotton sticks to Shiro's chest and stomach, running see-through where it's saturated with water or semen. His chest rises and falls with the quickened but steady pace of Shiro's breath. Keith wedges his lip between his teeth and keeps working. He rotates the cloth for something extra to do with his hands, and commits himself to cleaning with single-minded intent.

 The cloth itself is at the end of its lifespan — half dried and already a mess before Keith touched it. Keith is well aware that he's doing as much damage as he is helping, can see the way the come, stubborn and gone tacky, smears under his ministrations, but Shiro is pliant and loose under his hands — solid and real as one wide hand circles Keith's ankle and his knee radiates warmth through his jeans — and Keith isn't quite ready to let the moment pass.

 They linger that way: Shiro fully dressed with his belt still askew; Keith kneeling, nearly nude, at his side. They linger until Keith has run the cloth twice along each and every stain and smear, until the cloth is dry and the moon rides high and the wind picks up, moaning through the rafters. In the absence of Shiro's body heat engulfing him, Keith finds himself shivering, chilled to the bone.

 His hands fumble to a stop, the last messy fingerprint scrubbed and re-scrubbed with the ineffective cloth, and a deep sigh tumbles, unbidden, from deep within Keith’s chest. Shiro's half-smile is a puzzle, a familiar tilt with something as deep and unknowable as the stars laced through, and Keith can't quite bring himself to study it. Shiro's hand lifts, knuckles rubbing the underside of Keith's chin, before he cups the back of Keith's neck to draw him in.

 It's an awkward embrace. Shiro, half slumped into the crook of the back and arm rests, dragging Keith closer, one-handed and Keith, bent double with his hands caught between their chests and his nose squished against Shiro's collarbone; filthy cloth trapped between their bellies. The position sends a twinge of discomfort throughout Keith's body, but Shiro's free hand splays, huge and warm, across Keith's bare lower back as he massages the line of Keith's neck. He turns his face into Keith's hair and inhales like he wants to breathe Keith in and spirit him away. Keith lingers, despite the painful creak of his knees and the uncomfortable position, drinking in the moment.

 Keith's body jostles when Shiro sighs. Shiro slots his thumb and forefinger along the soft spaces behind Keith's jaw and traces the peach-fuzz there. He sighs again, barely reacting when Keith slips his chilly fingers under his shirt to warm them on his skin.

 “I think,” he starts, voice trailing as slow and reluctant as molasses, “we should probably get you back into your clothes.”

 Keith nods once into Shiro's shoulder, and slips back off the futon. His knees give off a violent, ugly crack as he straightens them. When he stands, it's slightly off-kilter on jellied legs. He braces himself on the arm of the futon and gives himself a moment to stretch until his back cracks, a series of pops racing up his spine, then he bends double and snags his dusty briefs from the floor. He shakes them out, watching displaced dust motes hang in the air and dance in the lamplight, before pulling them back on. He casts around for his jeans while Shiro stands, only a touch unsteady, and pulls out his phone to help hunt for Keith's socks.

 The jeans are twisted into a ball, legs caught and pulled inside out where Keith had impatiently stepped on his cuffs to get out of them. Keith has to sit on the lip of the futon, hard metal rail putting pressure against the places where his body is beginning to feel deliciously sore, and fumbles with the legs until the jeans are right-side out. He struggles into them as Shiro launches the first found sock towards his face. Keith catches it, barely, tucking it beneath his chin as he shimmies his hips to wiggle his jeans up into place. The sock — shaken out, covered with dust and tracked dirt — is on and Keith's boot is half-laced before Shiro finds the second. Shiro chuckles, a bit bemused, knees stained rust-red from the dirty floorboards, and hauls it out from under the wire frame of the futon. Shiro's face is illuminated from below by the orange glow of his phone.

 “Thanks,” Keith mumbles, plucking the sock from his outstretched hand and jamming it onto his foot.

 “Any time,” Shiro says, and holds Keith’s boot in place. He bats Keith’s hand away with a light tap, and tugs on Keith’s sloppy laces with neat, efficient motions until they’re pristine. He ties them off, double-knots them for good measure, and swaps over to fix the left. His dark fringe hangs loose over his forehead, strands messy and sweat-stiff. His eyelashes are long and cast shadows down across his cheeks. He looks fragile like this, real and human and breakable as his medical bracelet catches the lamplight. Keith can't keep his hands still, can't keep himself from reaching out and running his hand along his high cheekbone, palming the fade of his undercut, carding fingers through Shiro's soft hair.

 A sudden ache like the sharp crack of broken bones rips through Keith's chest, catching him off guard. He grinds the heel of one palm against his sternum and tugs Shiro's bangs until he looks up and meets Keith's eyes. Keith holds him there for a moment, hand shaking, unable to articulate the steady sweep of desperation burning his tongue. Shiro sits at his feet, patient.

 “Be safe up there,” Keith croaks, throat as dry as sunbaked desert dunes. He tugs Shiro's hair one more time for emphasis, holding his gaze, desperate to get his point across. “Come back to me.”

 Shiro's large hands fall away from the laces and curl loosely around Keith's ankle. They tap against the heel of Keith's boot, just once, before Shiro pushes back and away, and stands. He's smiling; a small, sad thing that has his eyes shining, overbright.

 He holds out one hand, and Keith's clasps it. Shiro pulls him to his feet with ease.

 They head to the door together.

 

\---

 

(fin.)

**Author's Note:**

>   
> [](https://twitter.com/fr0stmask/status/1080678062839099393)  
>   
> Huge thank you to fr0stmask for the incredible art, [please give their post some love!](https://twitter.com/fr0stmask/status/1080678062839099393)
> 
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> [twitter](https://twitter.com/aroundab00t)  
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